


Making every possible mistake

by Ibbyliv



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: First Meeting, Grantaire is an Homer nerd, It's Courfeyrac's Fault, M/M, Strangers, Suitcase AU, Taking the wrong bag AU, Tricolor underwear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2014-04-15
Packaged: 2018-01-19 12:19:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1469587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/pseuds/Ibbyliv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Shit,” he breathes when his fingers touch something that they really <em>shouldn’t touch</em>,  something furry and soft and it could be a kitten Enjolras would give the world for it to be a fucking kitten because it isn't. “Shit shit shit…”It’s a pair of fucking <em>handcuffs</em>.</p><p>A ticket of his favorite band whose live he never got to attend, the Iliad together with what seems like Iliad porn and a sketchbook with <em>his face</em> in it. Oh of course, and a pair of pink furry handcuffs. That was <em>exactly</em> what Enjolras expected when he opened his suitcase.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Making every possible mistake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Screamingpoet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Screamingpoet/gifts).



> I saw this trope on Tumblr over a month ago and have been working on this fic since then but exams happened so yeah... Sorry for the problems in it, they're probably because I wrote a few lines every day for a long time and that honestly isn't my way to work.  
> Dedicated to the wonderful, precious ray of sunshine that is called Screamingpoet (and is a great poet, at that), because sometimes it can be 'just a stranger' that makes your life so much better <3
> 
> I'M SO SORRY I'm referring to the Song of Achilles as plain Iliad porn, I've read it and you probably already know that it's one of my favorite books (thus the E/R - Patchilles crossover I've written) but this is from E's perspective and he probably just opened the book in a random page and saw some sexy times and figs.  
> I'm also sorry for the potential embarassing typos because I didn't have time to check it but I'll do so when I return home.

Patroclus and Achilles porn.

Seriously. _Seriously?_ This is how this twisted universe treats him, isn’t it? He gets to open his suitcase, terribly jetlagged and with a headache expecting to find the Social Contract copy he’s had since he was eleven, and is that what he gets instead? _Patroclus and Achilles porn?_

This absurdity is beyond his wildest imagination.

He’s ready to shout at Courfeyrac to get his ass in his bedroom immediately and confess the crimes committed upon an innocent suitcase, when he realizes that something is odd. Something is really, painfully odd.

These aren’t his clothes.

The lack of red in this suitcase is downright disturbing (that’s a sentence the weird inner voice he sometimes has in his head phrases, not him. That part of his subconscious which appears when he’s too tired to function properly, and maybe sends those Pontmercy-dressed-as-Napoleon dreams when he sleeps). He starts shuffling frantically, resulting in nothing but a red beanie. Which is sufficiently red but a _beanie._ Who in the world wears a beanie?

Courfeyrac, apparently.

“Courfeyrac!”

His best friend appears in the room inappropriately dressed holding what looks suspiciously like a carrot in his hand. Enjolras is not ready for this. “What is that in your hand?”

“A carrot. They make tanning easier. What is that on your floor?”

“A suitcase.”

“Yes but these are not your stuff. How did stuff that’s not your stuff end up in a suitcase that looks exactly like your suitcase?”

“That was exactly what I was going to ask you,” he feels alarmed. “Do you mean you don’t know anything about this?”

“Of course not… Oh my god Enjolras _did you steal somebody’s suitcase_?”

It hits Enjolras and he almost jumps up before falling on his knees and starting to fumble with the things in the suitcase. What if this isn’t his suitcase?

Well, surprise. This isn’t his suitcase.

“Shit,” he breathes when his fingers touch something that they really shouldn’t touch,  something furry and soft and it could be a kitten _Enjolras would give the world for it to be a fucking kitten._ “Shit shit shit…”It’s a pair of fucking handcuffs _._

Pink, furry _handcuffs_ with a lock and everything.

“Well,” Courfeyrac’s lips curl slowly to a wide, mischievous smile. “Interesting stuff you have in your suitcase!”

“I think we both just came to the conclusion that this is not my suitcase,” Enjolras grunts, rubbing his temple with the bridge of his hand. “A missing suitcase is exactly what I need right now.”

“Hey, it’s okay Enjo. Relax, you’ve probably taken the wrong suitcase and someone has yours. If we just find a phone number…” Courfeyrac abandons his carrot and comes to kneel on the floor near Enjolras, searching under the bundle of clothes. “What’s that?” he holds The Song of Achilles out.

“Apparently Iliad porn.”

“Cool,” whistles Courfeyrac, digging into the suitcase and pulling out another book. “Oh look, and Iliad itself.”

Enjolras takes the tome in his hands, now thoroughly confused. It’s Iliad in Ancient Greek and fully annotated with what seems like remarks, historical trivia, translations of words, even favorite parts. That’s a strange combination and somehow sparks his interest, but not for long. “I need to find my suitcase.”

Courfeyrac lets a sigh. “Well, Ferre will be back to help you in a while. I really want to discover more treasures with you but I must go get ready now, I have a date.” And after ruffling Enjolras’ hair, he turns around and leaves the room. The blonde considers calling after him, as he’s feeling particularly desperate, but then it occurs to him that, as much as he loves his best friend, he walks around the place in animal print briefs following Bugs Bunny’s example to get a tan in the middle of February. Eventually, he decides he’ll have to figure this problem out by himself.        

He moves to his bed and sits on the edge, taking a deep breath before starting to massage his temple. The beginning of a headache has in the meantime developed into a throbbing sensation, spreading in his scalp and he has so much to care for. The trip has left him behind in what concerns the project he must finish, plus there are so many things to organize for their activist meeting. He mentally esteems the loss: all the new pamphlets that cost them so much are in the suitcase, as well as his reading glasses and his medication and that’s really bad. Not to mention almost all of the clothes he owns and the book Combeferre gave him alongside his own.

Courfeyrac was right. He needs to calm down and concentrate. Despite the fact that he hasn’t found a phone tag yet, he reckons that there must be some piece of information inside, _somewhere._ Who carries around both the Iliad and the pornographic tribute (at least it looked like one) and forgets to have his email address written _somewhere_?

Apparently, the man who took his suitcase.

It is a man. Probably. Maybe. Maybe not. He mentally scolds himself for making assumptions and putting gender on clothes. They’re all baggy and faded. A Pink Floyd t-shirt. An Arctic Monkeys one. A Beatles and a Nirvana t-shirts, which are the most worn. A couple of plaid flannel shirts. Of course, they complete the beanie look. A huge leather jacket and, apart from the khakis and the torn jeans, what seems to be a pair of leather pants. How pretentious is that? Don’t they belong in the 80s musicals Joly loves, or something? Oh and of course, underwear. Used, by all means. A Simpsons one, a crazy hippie floral one, some black and some green and a pair of boxer shorts wearing a shirt and tie, if that makes any sense? Not that Enjolras has been meddling with a stranger’s unwashed underwear: that would be downright disturbing. He just needs them out of the way in order to search more.

There’s a mini vodka bottle at the sight of which he rolls his eyes and huffs, cursing his luck that he might have to be looking for a hung over middle aged rockhead with weird kinks, and proceeds in skillfully escaping the dozens of condoms, until he finds another book underneath them.

Not a book. A sketchbook.

This might have the answer he’s looking for.

*

Saying that Grantaire wakes up, takes his coffee, brushes his teeth and starts unpacking while merrily singing Do Re Mi from Sound of Music because a new dawn has broken would be a rather misleading description and a terribly boring plot. Instead an aspiring novelist should stick to the truth, that Grantaire punches his mobile phone in his sleep when it rings, rolls off on the floor burrito-wrapped in his duvet that reeks of tobacco and sweat (that’s probably how he smells too). Later he boils water for crappy instant coffee in the kettle which has grown fur around the walls and bangs his head against the cupboard when he decides that paracetamol won’t help with his hangover. He proceeds in watching telemarketing commercials on the TV, until the eleventh text from Jehan arrives, threatening that if he doesn’t unpack until tonight he’ll come and unpack for him, and Grantaire knows that after that half of his clothes will be missing (because Jehan _borrows_ band t-shirts to wear them with five inch creepers and neon animal print leggings) or worse, altered and Grantaire knows better than to murder a Romantic, especially when he’s called Jean.

Eventually he makes his way to his room, almost stepping on the Cat who’s learnt to ignore him by now, and lets an offended meow. He kneels on the floor and for a second he imagines how awesome it would be to open his suitcase and find nothing to be unpacked inside.

Instead he opens his suitcase, and finds a revolution of red fabric. And The Social Contract.

He blinks a couple of times, trying to remember what they smoked before their flight last night and how long its influence could have lasted. The red vomit of clothes that most definitely are not his own remains there. He blinks again. Jean-Jacques staring back at him with his “Well _merde_ ” expression. The fact that he can deal with _him_ more easily than he can with the foreign clothes is rather worrying, yet he opens the book on a random page and finds out it’s annotated. _Really_ fucking annotated. Somewhere in the drunken haze that is his head he realizes that he’s got the wrong suitcase and someone else has his own which really pisses him off (Jehan knitted that beanie and The Song of Achilles was Eponine’s gift and he really fucking cried despite the characterization issues), so much that he grabs a pink highlighter and finds the bio part in the author’s notes and marks the part where it says about the way he treated his children. Satisfied enough with his accomplishment, he decides he’s not that pissed off with the poor (though really _not_ poor this is a designer’s cardigan) poli-sci hipster who’s crying over his lost red hoodie. And blazer. And scarf.

Wait a minute, that’s a Gryffindor scarf.

And this t-shirt is fucking odd. _Penser, voila le vrai triomphe de l’ame?_ He has to admit he’s impressed it isn’t the ever-so-original _Liberte-Egalite-Fraternite,_ and he likes the logo. He vaguely wonders whether there are artists in whatever Les Amis de l’ABC (hopefully not a devoted Jehova’s witness group).

His questions are soon answered after he searches a bit and finds a couple of relatively angry pamphlets with the same fist-and-book logo, those too well-designed. Of course, he snorts. He can already see them before his eyes. A bunch of white cis schoolboys in designer cardigans, protesting for the rights of the oppressed and holding punny witty signs in demonstrations. He’s heard the story before.

He doesn’t know how it happens but he finds himself unfolding the clothes and bringing him closer for investigation, out of pure curiosity. Again, he doesn’t know how it happens but he ends up with his face buried in the soft wool of the red cardigan though he wishes he wouldn’t, and he wishes he’d have prevented himself from leaving that long, blissful moan because it seriously sounded so _wrong._ But it seriously isn’t his fault okay? How could it be his fault when people just go around after supposedly exhausting plane trips with their clothes perfectly folded in their suitcases, smelling subtly of coffee and apples (which are perfectly sinful fruits Adam knows that, seriously even Stephenie Meyer knows that).

Needless to say, Grantaire doesn’t unpack. If there is one thing that Grantaire does is have a beer, and then jerk off wearing a stupid cardigan that belongs to a stuck up poli-sci student, which is _not_ a particularly pathetic, frowned upon in most modern societies thing to do. Nope. Definitely not.

*

“I knew that a trip to my family was a bad idea!” Enjolras keeps walking back and forth in the living room, his cheeks flushed, with black circles under his eyes, and thank god Combeferre is here or else he’d have failed to keep himself collected until now.

His friend looks disturbingly calm as he stands up raises his eyes and stands up. “You need to calm down,” he says. “I’ll make you a cup of tea and then we’ll turn the suitcase upside down again just in case there’s a contact detail we’ve failed to notice, okay?”

“Coffee,” Enjolras says grumpily. “Not tea. It's the drink of the bourgeoisie. Plus I’m jetlagged.”

“Then I suggest you get some sleep,” Combeferre mutters gently, “but here, let’s give it another try before you go.”

They kneel on the floor and Combeferre has to grab his wrist to keep him from shaking. “Breathe, Enjolras.”

“How?” his voice comes out a little choked. “I have all this work to finish and I don’t even have my clothes and all the pamphlets… It took Feuilly hours to design them and you know how much they cost, and my medication…”

“I know,” Combeferre’s comforting hand is now on his forearm. “Is in the bag. But you don’t need to worry about it. Take it easy for today and tomorrow Joly will get you a new prescription. It’s not the end of the world. Plus you had your number on your suitcase, right?”

“Yes.”

“You never know, if you’re lucky you can still get a call.”

“If I’m _very_ lucky…”

Combeferre shoves the possibility of not finding the suitcase away (even though they both know it’s very unlikely) and kneels on the floor, skillfully avoiding the furry handcuffs, and starts searching pockets, in order to find an ID or a phone number. Enjolras honestly expects nothing and his heart jumps when Combeferre turns to show him something. “Did you know that?” he simply says, and Enjolras takes the small piece of paper in his hands, sinking in heavy disappointment when he finds no contact details whatsoever. It doesn’t take him long though to realize what he’s holding.

“It’s a ticket,” he says quietly, “from their live.”

Combeferre is smiling almost tenderly, like a mother who knows all about her child’s insecurities, weak points and, of course, favorite bands.

“Well, at least he has a good taste in music …” Enjolras huffs, “and probably a better time than I do.”

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” Combeferre says casually though in a careful tone.   

“I don’t see anything strange,” says Enjolras though the way his heart is pounding against his ribs says a different story. Enjolras doesn’t care for such affairs. He has absolutely no idea when it comes to art and his idea of fun is organizing a protest – or so Courfeyrac says – but if someone listens to those six or seven songs… he can’t really explain why, but he knows it’s important. The thing is that something else has happened, something that Combeferre doesn’t know and it really isn’t helping to set his thoughts in order.

“Ah look here,” Combeferre’s triumphant voice brings him back to reality. “There’s a notebook! We’ll find something…”

Before his friend is able to finish his sentence Enjolras has grabbed the sketchbook from his hands and held it out of reach. “No!”

The bespectacled man looks thoroughly bemused. “Well…”

“I’ve looked,” Enjolras says quickly. “There’s nothing in it. Only silly doodles.”

“Looking again will not do any…”

“No really. There’s nothing.”

The other man shrugs his shoulders. “If you say so.”

The truth is that Enjolras is not lying. Well, not wholly. There’s nothing helpful in the sketchbook, nothing that resembles a phone number. Still, he can’t let Combeferre have it. For some reason Enjolras has confiscated it and he feels like _it belongs_ to him, it’s so personal he can’t even begin to explain it and at the same time it the creepiest fucking thing in existence.

So creepy that Enjolras takes it in his room that night and browses through the recycled, charcoal smelling – coffee stained pages before he falls asleep. The drawing in it is magnificent. He stares at all the landscape and abstract, violent images that feel like a punch in the guts, he stares at all the beautiful portraits and the most truly _beautiful_ ugly ones, and then, on the last page, he blinks again and again only to find that he’s staring at himself, staring back at him. It’s his face, unmistakably his very own profile, his chin, his lips, his hair, even his eyes as he falls asleep and for the first time in forever, Enjolras knows he’s going crazy.

*

“Trying other people’s clothes on without their consent is wrong,” croons Jehan with a wide, innocent smile on his face, clearly enjoying this far more than he should. “Now try the g-string!”

Grantaire rolls his eyes, wondering whether he should reconsider his choices in friends until he looks down at himself, asphyxiated into the tightest jeans to ever jean and he realizes that there’s a perfect explanation for everything. He’s actually ended up trying that dude’s jeans on after a bet with Eponine that he wouldn’t fit into them and truth is, he can’t fit into them. The g-string though is an entirely different story… Oh the _g-string_! Who the fuck goes around wearing tricolor underwear? Grantaire doesn’t know what’s wrong with society anymore – not that he ever did in the past.

Eponine enters the room juggling three mugs of coffee – they better be Irish – and raises an eyebrow at the sight of him. “Are we sure it’s a boy?”

Jehan waves the tricolor underwear like a banner in the air. “A penis person, more correctly…”

Eponine leaves a small snort and curls on the couch next to her friend. “They must have a nice ass.”

Grantaire turns around to face them. “Actually all you can understand by looking at the jeans is how glorious _my_ ass looks squeezed in them.”

“Your ass is spectacular,” Jehan nods seriously before returning to the mess they’ve made in the already bombarded living room. “You should call him though,” he says, reaching for the contact tag they found earlier on the suitcase, “don’t forget there are his pills in there.”

“I should, shouldn’t I?” groans Grantaire, taking the red sweater in his hands and absent-mindedly noticing the faint scent on the wool. “You know what, you can do it for me,” he mutters, tossing it in the suitcase again.

“You don’t understand,” Jehan insists, “this is all reversed. Aren’t you curious? You both know each other’s secrets before you’ve even had the chance to meet.”

“Secrets, huh?” huffs Grantaire, “like the fact that he’s a patriotic Gryffindor who jerks off to Rousseau.”

“Well you jerked off to his cardigan," Jehan shrugs his shoulders, matter-of-factly. "He might not be patriotic. He might not even be a Gryffindor! These can be gifts but you will never know if you don’t call, plus he won’t get his anxiety pills and you won’t _see his ass.”_

“Right. Great arguments, I’ll uh… keep them in mind.”

“No but you should seriously call,” they hear Eponine, who got on her knees at some point and has been fumbling in the suitcase. “Look.”

She hands him what looks like a photo (and apparently is one too) and had failed their notice. He takes it in his hand and realizes what Eponine is apparently talking about.

The two men on the picture are hot. His eyes immediately fall on the curly one with the bowtie and the mischievous smile but a look at his whole appearance is enough to indicate his wardrobe does not probably consists of nothing but red. The tricolor g-string makes some sense though. As for the other guy with the glasses and the sweater vest, he look a bit wider than those ridiculous jeans would allow, and Grantaire doesn’t know but he doesn’t mind either.

“Okay,” he mutters. “I’m calling.”

*

Enjolras is alone when the phone rings and he picks it up without having the chance to consider what he should expect. Which most definitely is not… well, he is not expecting anything, it just sort of happens.

“Hey.” He doesn’t recognize that voice. He doesn’t think he’s heard it before but it’s strangely assuring and deep and… “Earth to suitcase kid?” annoying. Annoying was the word he was searching for. In a strange way, as this voice is somehow now connected to the small whiskey bottle and the smell of tobacco on the paint-stained plaid shirts and the handcuffs and something doesn’t feel entirely right.

“Yes, hello,” he hears himself saying, quickly standing up. “Do you have my suitcase?”

“Aw you’re very smart, aren’t you?”

Enjolras feels stuck for a few seconds and blames it on his headache. It’s only a few seconds, however, before he starts feeling angry instead. “You found my number. What have you been doing all this time instead of calling me?”

“Sleeping off a hangover and a jetlag.” Great. Lovely. So he’s drunk. Or at least has been during the past twenty four hours. And his voice is so deep and hoarse and did he just _swallow?_

“Ok. So. Could I have my suitcase?”

“I’ll have to think about it. Do you wear glasses?”

Enjolras is feeling terribly annoyed and this is not a situation he can handle right now so he decides to play along, hoping to finally get his stuff back. “When I read,” he replies truthfully, having absolutely no idea of the reason behind this.

“Oh,” there’s a small pause from the other end of the line and Enjolras can hear the man breathe. “I guessed so. One question though. How do you fit in those crazy jeans?”

Enjolras has started feeling impatient and uncomfortably exposed at the same time. He clears his throat. “Did you… did you search my stuff?”

“Of _course_ not,” smirks the voice, or maybe the man smirks and Enjolras imagines what it would be like if a voice could smirk. “I fell in love with the tricolor g-string though. Hella rad.”

He scrunches up his nose, almost hearing the last one in Courfeyrac’s voice. “They were a _gift._ And I’m sure that your fluffy handcuffs still have no competition,” Enjolras says in his best sarcastic voice, feeling quite satisfied with himself.

“We should meet though. I have made a few corrections to your annotations on dear ol’ Jean-Jacques that you might find interesting.”

This means war. “Tell me,” Enjolras hears himself hissing at the hoarse voice impatiently. “Tell me time, place, and a sign to recognize you.”

The man takes a few seconds to think and, eventually Enjolras hears him exhaling. “What about the café Corinthe, 6PM today? And you won’t even guess… I’ll be the one carrying your suitcase!”

Enjolras hangs up, positively frustrated without an apparent reason – _Actually, there’s a dozen of perfectly valid ones –_ and takes off his glasses in order to get ready.

*

Grantaire is way too young to die.

The thing is that he’s probably already dead and gone to heaven or to Olympus, (though that’s very unlikely), because as far as he knows Greek Gods don’t descend to Earth to hang around among them humans in cafés, and most of all they don’t usually tend to drag Grantaire’s suitcase with them.

He’s gorgeous, the most stunning person Grantaire has ever seen in his life. A blond tuft falls dangerously over his eyes which are stricken with a flame of determination that belongs to another setting and era yet he doesn’t look out of place though it’s really odd that he’s wearing just a denim shirt. Probably all of his red belongings are in the suitcase between Grantaire’s knees and he notices that his gaze falls on it and he starts walking to his table but Grantaire can’t, he must stop, he mustn’t make another step.

“Hello,” the man reaches the table.

“Hey,” he hears himself talking as the man stops at his table. “You… you look nothing like the picture.”

The blonde raises an eyebrow. “Picture? What picture?”

“The one in your suitcase?”

“These were just my best friends,” the God says.

“Oh…” Grantaire says, “you said you wear glasses so I thought…”

“You thought I was Combeferre?” the man laughs and it’s so wonderful and clear a sound, like a river flowing in a green field with butterflies and shit… alright that’s not the point, poetry is not his area of expertise. Suddenly everything’s painful Something in the harmless way he says _friends_ makes Grantaire heave a sigh of relief, yet it’s painful, it hurts so much because he can’t even imagine his life without him from now on, it seems impossible to breathe if this ridiculous human being isn’t near and he knows they haven’t even met, and he knows he can never have him.

He has to go. He _needs_ to go.

He stands up and reaches for his suitcase. “Uh, thank you for my suitcase, here’s yours, it was nice meeting you, hope it was nice meeting me too though I’m not Rousseau…”

“Wait,” the man with the golden halo on his head offers him his hand. “I’m Enjolras. Won’t you let me buy you a coffee? I owe you. If it was someone else they could have kept my things and never return them!”

Grantaire’s eyes move with terror at the pale yet steady hand still waiting to shake his own. For some reason it feels as if he’s going to by struck by electricity if he dares to touch him yet he does and Enjolras’ hand is so warm against his own cold, clammy skin, the man with the pretentious name is the personification of the fucking sun or something. “I’m Grantaire, and I mean absolutely no offence when I say that don’t think anyone would really care to steal your tricolor g-string.”

He knows he’s already fucked up by the color Enjolras’ face turns, yet Grantaire is astounded to see the man pulling a chair and taking a seat, which means that the coffee proposal is still on. Grantaire cautiously sits opposite him and they exchange suitcases, pushing them with their feet under the table in perfect synchronization. They remain silent for a while, as if it isn’t already painfully awkward for two strangers to sip their coffee together, with two identical suitcases between their legs.

“What about the handcuffs?” Enjolras asks in a sinister manner after a few minutes that feel like eternity since Grantaire really can’t stop talking to him but he really has to.

“Oh no,” Grantaire finds himself flapping his hands over the table less elegantly than he’d like to. “No no no no no, you won’t impose Prouvaire’s shit upon me.”

The blonde raises an eyebrow before returning to his mug for a while. Grantaire is wondering whether he should just stand up and go because this is clearly harmful both to his mental and physical health, when Enjolras raises his gaze to stare at him with serious, glowing eyes. “And the tickets?” he asks, as if his entire life is suddenly depending on Grantaire’s answer. “Are they Prouvaire’s too?”

It takes a while for Grantaire to understand, and then he simply does. “Now the whole you makes more sense,” he breathes. _Everything_ makes more sense. “The Barricades. You like them.” Something is dancing inside Grantaire and he doesn’t know whether he wants to throw up or gather all the courage of the world and kiss him, because this. This is important.

“You like them too.” It’s the same as answering _yes, I love them._ It’s even more. Grantaire knows that optimistic glimpse of hope in his eyes, he knows that very well. Suddenly, he feels found.

“I have the vinyls,” he says. “Care to hear them?”

Their knees brush under the table, over the identical suitcases, and Grantaire holds his breath. For a second, he imagines them both sitting on nearby seats in the airplane, then checking out together. He imagines holding his hand and it feels so familiar, as if he’s done it before. He remembers the sketches he shamelessly did in the plane and he knows that Enjolras has seen them, yet for some reason it feels alright.

“I would really love that.”

**Author's Note:**

> The ABC t-shirt is the most wonderful thing in existence, designed by the one and only littlewadoo. It can be found in her society6: http://society6.com/Littlewadoo/Les-Amis-de-lABC-frat-logo_Print *whispers* and i want it for my birthday but nobody knows woe is me


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